Saturday 6:35 p.m.
Most of my friends are folk I've known since way before I sold any of my wonderful writings. Well, there's only about three or four of them! The only time I ever hung about with writers was in the early 1990s when I first met the sensei and reverend. I was already forty by then and they guys were much younger.
An actor (and writer!) I knew called Lance Flynn told me the sensei wanted to meet me. Anyway, I went down to the Antiquary in St Stephen's Street to this poetry evening the sensei used to organise. He was pointed out to me. Nosferatu with a skinhead and teeshirt bearing the legend in bold white letters against black: DIE YUPPIE SCUM! After that I saw quite a bit of the sensei, and he used to ask me to go along with him to readings, launches, etc. Kevin Williamson was organising brilliant events with readings and all that at this time.
When I was at these things with the sensei, I sometimes met Paul Reekie. Paul was a very personable, likeable guy. I remember him doing a reading at one of these Rebel Inc events about going to a peculiar kind of party. Very funny.
I haven't seen the kiddo for nine weeks, the longest time since she was born. She's been in the Fatherland checking out glass studios. When I was her age, with a few friends I went in a caravanette to Belgium, Holland, Germany, Luxembourg, France, Italy, Tunisia, Algeria, Morocco, Spain, France again and back to Blighty. A song we always had on the tape deck was Forever Young by the inimitable Bob.
When I got back to Bellshill after about five months, the auld maw ran up and down the lobby in delight. She wasn't allowed to go to Glasgow when she was young in case the Chinese took her away for the white slave trade. I will be pleased to see the kiddo when she gets back tonight.
The Domestic Bliss was watching a Sons Of Anarchy DVD last night. It had Forever Young as part of the sound track. I stopped hanging about with writers after the sensei funged off to America, but I did bump into Paul Reekie once or twice, here and there, as you do, but I really remember him from those Rebel Inc things. The sensei let me know that he'd committed suicide last week. I wish folk wouldn't do that! He was a one off, great guy!
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0gUgTrYja8&NR=1
Saturday, 12 June 2010
Friday, 11 June 2010
Friday night!
Friday 11:40 p.m.
The week after I run out of the bob hope always tends to be rather alcoholic, but I'm sober and straight tonight. I was on the bike today for an hour and forty minutes. Passed by a sign near Holytown saying James Keir Hardie was born here. I was chuffed that he was born near Bellshill when I was kid. No burglars came calling while a house sat in Newmains, so I didn't get to kill anyone.
The week after I run out of the bob hope always tends to be rather alcoholic, but I'm sober and straight tonight. I was on the bike today for an hour and forty minutes. Passed by a sign near Holytown saying James Keir Hardie was born here. I was chuffed that he was born near Bellshill when I was kid. No burglars came calling while a house sat in Newmains, so I didn't get to kill anyone.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
New Rules!
Thursday 11:20 p.m.
There is only one thing, so it's not all about moi! I already get my zen from the sensei and reverend. The exoticness I get from the juju joes and josephines from Tibet. I think I should take dietary advice from Albert. Albert knows stuff about the body since he is smarter than anyone and more neurotic than anyone, so it all balances up with him. So since we are a compendium of thoughts, mostly from other people, I think I will bow to the sensei about zen, and bow to the Albert about diet, and all things neurotic. I take advice from Mary Queen of Scots on how to live my life because she has spectacularly overcome broken arms, basturns and tough times. The body who grows tomatoes knows much more about plants than I ever will.
I changed blogs once because too many people were hitting on my blog. I just want a few people.
I can do the plodding stuff, the sitting for ages stuff because I am convinced it does work, but I do need the input and criticism from the few folk who land on this bloggie.
I read the quote on my wall at the tai chi on Tuesday, from the book by F.C. Happold. How strange. It was from the sufis. Allah Akbar. I think I wrote it on my wall, as I did most things between being thirty and thirty five.
I am not the body
I am not the senses
I am not the mind
I am not this
I am not that
What then am I? What is the self?
It is in the body
It is in everybody
It is everywhere
It is the all
It is self. I am It. Absolute Oneness.
I need help. I get a lot of help. I am spectacularly not moi! So I'm not!
No interruptions today. No worries. Perfect Thursday!
There is only one thing, so it's not all about moi! I already get my zen from the sensei and reverend. The exoticness I get from the juju joes and josephines from Tibet. I think I should take dietary advice from Albert. Albert knows stuff about the body since he is smarter than anyone and more neurotic than anyone, so it all balances up with him. So since we are a compendium of thoughts, mostly from other people, I think I will bow to the sensei about zen, and bow to the Albert about diet, and all things neurotic. I take advice from Mary Queen of Scots on how to live my life because she has spectacularly overcome broken arms, basturns and tough times. The body who grows tomatoes knows much more about plants than I ever will.
I changed blogs once because too many people were hitting on my blog. I just want a few people.
I can do the plodding stuff, the sitting for ages stuff because I am convinced it does work, but I do need the input and criticism from the few folk who land on this bloggie.
I read the quote on my wall at the tai chi on Tuesday, from the book by F.C. Happold. How strange. It was from the sufis. Allah Akbar. I think I wrote it on my wall, as I did most things between being thirty and thirty five.
I am not the body
I am not the senses
I am not the mind
I am not this
I am not that
What then am I? What is the self?
It is in the body
It is in everybody
It is everywhere
It is the all
It is self. I am It. Absolute Oneness.
I need help. I get a lot of help. I am spectacularly not moi! So I'm not!
No interruptions today. No worries. Perfect Thursday!
World Cup
Thursday 10:05 p.m.
You are supposed to treat everyone the same. I think it's called equanimity. I tried to support the Rangers in their bid to win a European trophy a couple of years ago. I managed until the final when I saw the huns flood into Manchester with the Union Jacks streaming out of their motors, and hoped there were plenty of riot police waiting for them. Unfortunately, not enough as it turned out.
Flicking through the channels after getting back from the allotment this evening, what did I find on BBC Four but the Bobby Moore Story. Fung sake! I told my line manager, who is a very, very nice man from Chester, that I would try to support the Little Englanders until the semi-finals, that I was friendly with a lot of English people, and that they should have won it more than once. Dearie me. It's the fact that the "British" media keep harking back to 1966 that sticks in everyone's craw up here.
1966 was only twenty one years after the end of the Second World War. I do remember sitting on my da's knee and asking him what he did in the war. But since about 1975 the Second World War has always seemed like science fiction to me. Also, it's in black and white, mostly. Why would anyone want to kill all the jews? While fighting a war against almost everybody as well. I do find it hard to get my head round that.
So, according to the Bobby Moore Story, the Russian referee who walked over to the Turkish linesman, with whom he couldn't converse, to discuss whether or not the ball had gone over the line for the third English goal had had between thirty and forty members of his family killed by the Germans in the Second World War. The English player who had the best view said the ball didn't go over the line. With a referee like that ... I remember being really happy when the Gerries equalised with almost the last kick of the ball in the regulation ninety minutes. It should have gone straight to a penalty shoot out.
I think every time the World Cup comes round, in Scotland we should get to see the WHOLE game when Scotland drubbed them, took the piss, rubbed their noses in it, etc., because all we get is the 1966 stuff and not the game which made us all so happy in 1967.
So maybe it's time the Little Englanders won it again so we don't have to keep looking at this 1966 crap. Also, they've got an Italian manager. He'll have paid the referee.
You are supposed to treat everyone the same. I think it's called equanimity. I tried to support the Rangers in their bid to win a European trophy a couple of years ago. I managed until the final when I saw the huns flood into Manchester with the Union Jacks streaming out of their motors, and hoped there were plenty of riot police waiting for them. Unfortunately, not enough as it turned out.
Flicking through the channels after getting back from the allotment this evening, what did I find on BBC Four but the Bobby Moore Story. Fung sake! I told my line manager, who is a very, very nice man from Chester, that I would try to support the Little Englanders until the semi-finals, that I was friendly with a lot of English people, and that they should have won it more than once. Dearie me. It's the fact that the "British" media keep harking back to 1966 that sticks in everyone's craw up here.
1966 was only twenty one years after the end of the Second World War. I do remember sitting on my da's knee and asking him what he did in the war. But since about 1975 the Second World War has always seemed like science fiction to me. Also, it's in black and white, mostly. Why would anyone want to kill all the jews? While fighting a war against almost everybody as well. I do find it hard to get my head round that.
So, according to the Bobby Moore Story, the Russian referee who walked over to the Turkish linesman, with whom he couldn't converse, to discuss whether or not the ball had gone over the line for the third English goal had had between thirty and forty members of his family killed by the Germans in the Second World War. The English player who had the best view said the ball didn't go over the line. With a referee like that ... I remember being really happy when the Gerries equalised with almost the last kick of the ball in the regulation ninety minutes. It should have gone straight to a penalty shoot out.
I think every time the World Cup comes round, in Scotland we should get to see the WHOLE game when Scotland drubbed them, took the piss, rubbed their noses in it, etc., because all we get is the 1966 stuff and not the game which made us all so happy in 1967.
So maybe it's time the Little Englanders won it again so we don't have to keep looking at this 1966 crap. Also, they've got an Italian manager. He'll have paid the referee.
Mare Photies!
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Thursday 7:30 p.m.
The sun started shining and I spent all afternoon in the allotment. One of the photies shows flowers appearing on the potatoes. Two are the views to the left and right of where I was meditating. And one is of a gooseberry I tried. Still not sweet enough.
More About The Writings!
Thursday 11:30 a.m.
Slept in today and didn't start meditating till an hour ago. But what a meditation that was!!
The Spango Yogini asked me about writing. I'm going to re-commence writing the book about The Traffic Warden Massacre. I had a go once this week and I'd forgotten how hard it is to write, or at least start books. I always find first drafts tough. I love re-writing. That's easy. And, yes, I type everything. I've never written in longhand. I learned to type by trying to write a book when I left uni. I thought it looked more like a printed page.
When I was lying in bed this morning, I was thinking about writing for radio. Over a ten year period, I had four radio plays produced by Radio Scotland and Radio 4. These were good. Someone once described them as "acclaimed". I think I had eight plays produced over the ten years I was writing plays, but I never thought of myself as a playwright. I was always writing prose as well.
Today I want to concentrate on the juju. I hope it rains so I don't have to go up to the allotment. There's tons of work to be done up there.
Time for one more meditation before luncho!
Slept in today and didn't start meditating till an hour ago. But what a meditation that was!!
The Spango Yogini asked me about writing. I'm going to re-commence writing the book about The Traffic Warden Massacre. I had a go once this week and I'd forgotten how hard it is to write, or at least start books. I always find first drafts tough. I love re-writing. That's easy. And, yes, I type everything. I've never written in longhand. I learned to type by trying to write a book when I left uni. I thought it looked more like a printed page.
When I was lying in bed this morning, I was thinking about writing for radio. Over a ten year period, I had four radio plays produced by Radio Scotland and Radio 4. These were good. Someone once described them as "acclaimed". I think I had eight plays produced over the ten years I was writing plays, but I never thought of myself as a playwright. I was always writing prose as well.
Today I want to concentrate on the juju. I hope it rains so I don't have to go up to the allotment. There's tons of work to be done up there.
Time for one more meditation before luncho!
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Wednesday night!
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Wednesday 8:45 p.m.
I've decided I'd better do something about my diet, Jack. Why is that, Hotboy? Well, if you live on bread and soup and beer, you end up getting leprosy and become a fat basturn. Also, I eat loads of butter and cheese and there's something no right about that.
Once I used to stir fry in a wok. Once I ate a lot of pasta. On neither of these times did I turn into a fat basturn.
Then it occurred to me that I can change my diet next month because then the tatties will come on stream.
We went to visit the allotment this evening. There have been days and days of nothing but drizzle and smirr recently, so I have not managed to get up there for a bit. The place has exploded. Everything seems twice the size it was a week ago. The potatoes do love the wet! It is tattie heaven up there. When I go up tomorrow I must remember to talk in an Irish accent ...
The best thing I've ever heard on the radio was a reading of The Poor Mouth by Patrick McGee, a now dead fabulous actor. It's a satire about the west of Ireland (I didn't have to tell you that, Jack, did I?) and nobody in it eats anything but potatoes.
I reckon I could have a potato diet by mid-July. Hurrah!
The first photie is of the cherries before they go red. Then there is the tatties. There's a photie of our lupins and one of the laburnum tree on the way home. Then there is a couple of bees. They say the bees are in trouble, but not around our allotment they aren't. It's hard to get a photie of them though with a mobile phone camera. Then, by accident, there are two photies taken from where I was sitting on Tuesday at the issue desk of my jobbie. Dearie me! Let us not think about that when I don't have to go there till next Monday. Hurrah!
I do hope the weather is okay tomorrow. I need a Thursday with no flatheids. I really do. I can't stand on my head at the hut or do back bends, but you do feel stashed up there, safe and secure.
On Friday I will visit the good mother, who will be going for lunch, and kill some burglars. The kiddo comes home from the Fatherland on Saturday and leaves for the highlands on Sunday, so there will be much agitation everywhere, and I really need to have Thursday on my own. Despite getting over the nicotine and drinking way too much, the meditations continue to be fabuloso.
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